Bury Him
by Dlvvanzor
Summary: Sherlock returns after a year and a half only to find John gone and everyone insisting that he's dead. Sherlock, however, has reason to believe otherwise, and it turns out he's willing to go all over the world in order to track him down. Johnlock.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

* * *

**Prologue**

Sherlock Holmes had never been bothered by dead bodies.

As a child, he could remember finding road kill on the streets at the edge of the Holmes Manor grounds and being delighted that he'd have organic material to experiment on for once. He would run back to the house, strap on some latex gloves, and be back outside in minutes, scraping up the unfortunate animal— his favorite find was cats because they were similar to humans in lots of informative ways— and carrying it to his room to place on a tray.

Mycroft never seemed to have a problem with this, joining him occasionally (when they were very young and still friends), but their parents were another matter entirely. Sherlock had, at one point, decided to show them the heart he had managed to remove from a squirrel completely intact and how it was reacting to the hydrochloric acid he was soaking it in.

This is when Sherlock discovered that most people don't like corpses and put people who _do_ into therapy, which had quite frankly been a disaster.

Sherlock kept heads and thumbs and eyeballs in the refrigerator and microwave and thought nothing of eating food that cohabitated with them. He kept a real skull on his mantle and sometimes carried it around in public to bounce ideas off of (which had the added benefit of keeping people on the streets from walking too close to him). He beat corpses with riding crops or cut various parts of them to measure bleeding and never once had he seriously considered that it might be wrong or disgusting or something, like people said it was.

Until he'd driven her out of the field, his therapist had certainly had some interesting labels for him, one of which he had cheerfully chosen to operate under. Sometimes he wondered if she was actually right and he truly was a sociopath, but most of the time he decided that it didn't really matter— maybe he _was_. Then again, maybe he wasn't a sociopath at all and was just unsentimental, hated to be bored, largely lacked normal emotions, and found corpses informative.

Sherlock had never had trouble touching dead bodies, working with them, even tossing them over the sides of passing laundry trucks.

So, really, this 'disorder' or whatever it was had made it incredibly easy for him to fake his own death.


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

* * *

Sherlock was really, really not used to feeling nervous.

Admittedly, he wasn't used to feeling much of anything outside of boredom, but then John always _had_ possessed the ability to make Sherlock do things of which he had not believed himself capable. Things like caring, a little. Things like making tea for another person without being asked, just to make them happy. Things like... Sherlock coughed.

Gathering himself together to the best of his ability, Sherlock set his lips, slid his key into the lock of 221 Baker Street, and opened the-

The key wouldn't move.

He frowned, glaring at the lock and twisting the key sharply, but it didn't budge.

"Open," he ordered it, jiggling the key, almost stamping his foot in his frustration. And wow, he really _was_ losing it, wasn't he? This is what he got for staying away for a year and a half: Good cause or no, he had discovered early-on that he went a bit mad when John wasn't there to temper him.

And he _was_, now. John was _right there_, on the other side of this infernal door and up a short flight of steps, and Sherlock needed to be over there already, no more waiting. He needed to see John, tell him he would never leave again, probably get punched in the face for leaving in the first place...

He wriggled the key some more.

Apparently, he could dethrone every European leader of Moriarty's criminal organization in a year and a half but he could not open this door.

He was about ready to break it down with his shoulder when he reminded himself that his mind was scattered after so long away and, as logic slowly came back to him, that the most likely explanation was Mrs. Hudson changing the lock. Luckily, she was predictable and kindhearted, bless her, and the planter by the door had obviously been shifted around by a few degrees, probably to make room for a spare key in case one of her tenants locked themselves out.

He dug through the plant a little less gently than he probably should have, finding the key without much trouble and never more pleased that someone was ordinary.

This key worked. He didn't pause at the bottom of the stairs, instead electing to go bounding up them like he usually would and explode through the door.

"John!" he shouted, his sudden, sharp joy undisguised in his voice. "John! I'm back, I—"

"Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my flat," a dangerous, distinctly not-John voice greeted him.

Sherlock whipped around in time to see a tall man coming out of the kitchen which was, he noticed, lacking in experiments and assorted body parts. Also his skull was gone.

"I live here," Sherlock informed the much-larger man. "Where is John?"

"Look, mate, I don't know who you think you are—"

"Sherlock Holmes," he said, as if that explained anything to the increasingly angry man in front of him. Apparently he didn't read the papers... or, maybe, it meant that the story had blown over. Wouldn't that be nice? "Are you John's flatmate?"

"There's no John here. Now get out before I call the police."

Sherlock could see a woman peeking out from around the corner, her face slightly scrunched up with concern about random blokes bursting into her home in the middle of the night. Sherlock wasn't ready to reveal himself to Lestrade and the others, not until he located John, so the threat actually landed. "I must be mistaken," he said as placatingly as possible, backing away. "Apologies."

Two moments later had him pounding on Mrs. Hudson's door in what was definitely not panic, pacing back and forth in front of it, and mentally cursing the inventor of doors as the woman evidently took her sweet time getting around to letting him in.

Finally, the older lady opened up (admittedly it was 11:30 at night, but he had never paid any mind to conventions like that and he didn't intend to start now), clutching her nightgown closed, and opened the door. "Yes, yes, what is it, then— Sherlock!?"

Had she been holding anything, it would have dramatically fallen from her fingertips and smashed into a thousand tiny pieces on the floor.

"Where is John?" was the first thing out of his mouth.

Some expression flashed briefly across her face but then her shock took over again and she repeated, "_Sherlock_? You're..."

"Alive, yes, yes, I'm not dead, but there are people in my flat and I really must speak with John."

"Oh Sherlock!"

The detective shouldn't have been surprised when the older lady rushed to him and brought him into a tight hug, which he endured, but he was. It really had been a long time (and a _very_ long time since he'd received a hug), and preserving aspects of Mrs. Hudson's nature in his mind hadn't been a priority when his brain was being bombarded with all things Moriarty for over a year.

When she finally let go of him and he loosened up with a small sigh of relief, he insisted, "John?"

Something about the way Mrs. Hudson flinched made Sherlock's heart (which may or may not exist) clench in his chest. "Oh Sherlock, Sherlock, you were dead."

"I faked my death, Mrs. Hudson, because Moriarty had snipers trained on John, you, and Lestrade and if I didn't jump he would have killed you all," he said shortly. "Now. _John_, Mrs. Hudson."

"Why were you gone so _long_?"

"_Mrs. Hudson_."

It all seemed to be too much at once for the landlady and she held her breath for a moment before letting it out slowly through her nose. She opened the door a bit wider and tugged his sleeve gently, pulling him into the room and sitting him down on her blue plaid sofa. Standing in front of him, looking at him with watery eyes for a moment, she finally managed, "He's gone, Sherlock."

"Where did he go?" Sherlock demanded briskly. "Back to Afghanistan? No, he was discharged on injury so it's unlikely they would accept him back. Did he marry? Sarah? That boring teacher?" Mrs. Hudson's face twisted up even more with what could only be described as pity, which did nothing in the way of comforting her old tenant. Maybe if he kept talking, she wouldn't tell him what she was about to tell him, because Sherlock actually did know what 'gone' meant, thank you, he could _identify _politeness after all. "Did he move elsewhere, then? Couldn't very well afford the flat on his own, that's why he was looking for a flatshare in the first place. Back to school for more medical training? Maybe he wanted to specialize... of course I have no data so..."

Mrs. Hudson waited until he wound down and ran out of theories, looking at her a bit fearfully, finally quiet, his hands on his thighs.

"Sherlock, love..." she finally whispered, "John passed away."

For a moment, Sherlock was certain that he'd misheard. She really should speak up, because she couldn't have just said that John was dead because John couldn't be dead because the one who was risking his life was _Sherlock_, not John. In fact, Sherlock had left specifically so that John _wouldn't_ be in danger, so clearly John couldn't have died. Can't very well die when you're not in danger. The odds of him dying randomly without his death being caused by Moriarty had never been something Sherlock even bothered to calculate. John had survived over thirty years so far. He was a doctor. A relatively clean-living man. Why would he randomly die? It was absurd...

His distinctly unintelligent reply was, "Huh?"

"About six months back, now," she elaborated sadly, nodding earnestly as if it would help him understand.

He jumped to his feet, startling Mrs. Hudson but unable to work up a good care about it. "How? You must be mistaken. The odds are incredibly... How did he die?" He found that his voice was loud but he couldn't remember raising it and that his hands were on her shoulders but he couldn't remember putting them there.

"It was really quite... perfect in a way," she said softly. "Appropriate, and the like. Him being a doctor."

The meaning of that slowly sank in.

"He... died saving someone." Not that John was dead. Of course not. Although it _would_ explain the flat being Johnless... but no, of course he wasn't _dead_...

"Yes. The young lady he helped... she says he must have heard the shouting and he ran right into the alley to save her. And he did, he saved her. She said she was one of your homeless network or something, when she came to see me. She remembered John and was terribly sorry."

It was probably Catherine, Sherlock thought idly. As far as he knew, she was one of the few members of his network who John had met, and who could have known of John's association with him. She was a prostitute, did a few too many drugs but overall she was reliable. If she had come to Mrs. Hudson to explain this, it was most likely true.

"He was shot," Mrs. Hudson added. "In his thigh. The same one where he had his limp in the beginning, you know. The young lady said he was gone before help could arrive. 'Femoral artery,' the doctors said."

"Andtheshooter?" Sherlock's throat appeared to be closed off. Odd. It was the strangest sensation, needing to bully your throat into letting sound out.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head.

Sherlock sat back against the sofa and brought the heels of his hands to his eyes, rubbing vigorously, seeing splotches of color. He felt his body shift as Mrs. Hudson sat down next to him, and then he felt her hand as it came to rest on his leg. He automatically drew the limb away from the touch and her hands relocated to her lap, folded there.

The room was too warm, too close and too decorated, and the one lamp that attempted to light the area was doing a poor job of it, giving everything a sort of ominous peace, throwing Mrs. Hudson, next to him, into shades of mostly brown and sepia and making him paler than ever. It smelled like sweat, old, clean furniture, and hairspray.

"His... his things?" Sherlock's voice eventually broke the silence that had descended over them, making the landlady jump. "Do you have them?" It definitely, absolutely did not come out as a croak.

"I tried to give some of his things to his sister, but she didn't want anything so I gave most of it to charity."

The thought of John being lost forever— as if John's essence came from his clothes and his shampoo and his surprising abundance of shoes— made something twist in Sherlock's gut and he forced out, "Anything at all?"

"I have a journal. After you... died... he stopped with his blog, but I saw him scribbling away in a notebook all the time. When he passed on I just couldn't throw it out..."

John's words survived, then. That was better than anything he could have hoped for. John, his reluctant blogger.

"May I have it?"

"Of course, Sherlock," she said softly. She trotted away to fetch it, nightgown still clutched tightly around her body. She returned moments later (_she kept it in a visible place, then, easily accessible, something to see often and remember John by, to remember _both _of us by, probably sitting unobtrusively in a little corner in her kitchen)_ cradling a small, battered brown journal to her breast.

"Here it is. He was never seen without it," she said, offering it out to him with both hands.

He took it reverently, running his fingers over the worn leather cover. Very John: simple, sturdy, understated.

"Have you read it?"

She nodded and tears came into her eyes but didn't spill over. Sherlock vaguely noticed the slight blush that appeared on her cheeks, as well. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I wouldn't have if I'd known you were coming back."

"You couldn't have. I died too well," he assured her blankly.

The next half hour was largely a blur as Mrs. Hudson made up her spare room for him and he followed like a zombie, lost in thought and wanting nothing more than to open the journal. He found himself being all but tucked into bed, kissed on the forehead, offered tea, receiving an admonishment about making sure there was enough light to read by, and being left alone to look at the little book.

Fighting his way out of the blankets that had been wrapped around him and rolling onto his stomach to prop himself up on his elbows, Sherlock positioned John's notebook precisely in front of him, running his fingers over the binding again. Without further hesitation, he flipped it open to the first page.

John's small, military-precise handwriting greeted him.

_Sherlock's jump will be burned into my memory forever. Until the day I die, I will remember every single word he said and what little I could see of every expression on his face. I'll remember every inflection and every hesitation, and the way his hand reached out to me, and the sound of his body as it met cement._

_So, I don't need to write that part down. There really isn't a point. Everything else, though, is fair game in terms of what my brain will choose to keep hold of. Most of it is in the blog, so that's covered, but the case right before he jumped is none of that damn thing's business. I have to record it somewhere, though, because I need all of it recorded. I can't imagine a single thing that would be worse than forgetting the details of our life together. Before, I would only have had to ask Sherlock to remind me, but now I just have my own mind and I don't trust it to hold onto the sharp edges of each memory, the intensity of the emotions and the complexity of the exact situations. So, what I can remember of the two weeks before the start of the circumstances that would lead to his death will be here, and nowhere else._

_But nothing about his suicide._

Sherlock slammed the journal closed.

Sherlock had always been able to cry on command. He had taken great pleasure in getting out of his dullest classes during his school years by pretending to be bothered by the names the other children called him. His teachers thought he was quite sensitive, with how often he came crying to them, and they'd phoned his house more than once in concern. Of course, this had led to being called even _more_ names, which had led to even more skipped class and suited Sherlock just fine.

Similarly, it had served him well over the years in his profession. People, especially women, almost always gave him what he wanted, and all he had to do was shed a few tears. They'd help him, stay out of his way, let him into their houses, tell him whatever he wanted to know... he was surprised more men didn't use this technique but he supposed it was better for society that way.

He had always been smug about how quickly he could make tears come and, just as easily, dismiss them, and had always thoroughly enjoyed the confusion of whoever he had just been manipulating. He had done it a hundred times, easy.

He didn't remember the last time he had cried like this, though.

Hard, silent, and with no one around him who needed manipulating at all.

* * *

Sherlock awoke to discover that his brain had worked it all out in his sleep.

For the second time in as many days, he almost made Mrs. Hudson drop things she thankfully wasn't holding as he burst out of his temporary room and all but collided with her in his excitement.

"He's not dead!" he bellowed at her, first thing.

"Sherlock?"

"John's not dead! He's not dead, Mrs. Hudson, he can't be!"

Her expression was heartbroken but Sherlock didn't care. It was only because she didn't understand, yet. He couldn't get the words out fast enough— the sooner he said them, the sooner they would be true, because Sherlock Holmes was never wrong and he certainly wasn't about to _start_ _being wrong_ _now_. The result was a barely intelligible stream of consciousness, coming out in one breath.

"I saw Moriarty shoot himself in the head. But did I? I didn't even check his pulse, Mrs. Hudson, too frazzled by my worry that the snipers would, so to speak, jump the gun. But if I can fake my death with such relative ease, why can't Moriarty? He was right— we are the same, in many ways, including our unwillingness to admit defeat by ever committing suicide. I didn't think of it then, though, so I didn't track him as I disassembled his web. He saw my actions, figured out that I believed him dead. Even now, he is rebuilding, planning another strike in a few years, when he is ready to supposedly catch me by surprise."

"Sherlock—"

"And John is clever. Cleverer than even I give him credit for much of the time because he tends to hide it so well. He got through medical school, after all, and we must count that for _something._ He worked out that Moriarty was alive and that I faked my death and he used the same methods— blood bag, rubber ball— to come after me, to tell me what I couldn't have known: that Moriarty wasn't truly dead! He realized that I would need his help and that in order to follow me without spurring Moriarty to kill you and Lestrade and maybe his sister, he would have to do just as I did! It took him a bit but John, he's clever. Do you _see_?"

"Not really..." Mrs. Hudson admitted, dazed by the sudden onslaught of information. She hadn't even had her tea yet...

"He's alive! He faked his death just like I did, and just like Moriarty did! Right now he is out there, somewhere, tracking me, and I must find him!"

Mrs. Hudson's eyes were watering again. She would really have to stop doing that because it wasn't at all encouraging.

"Sherlock... I went to John's funeral..."

The detective waved that away. "You went to mine too, Mrs. Hudson, and here I am."

"That's true, but... what about his journal? Why didn't he mention his plan in there?"

"Too much of a liability," Sherlock said briskly, finding his coat and shoes where Mrs. Hudson had stashed them the previous night. Not that he had actually read the whole thing, yet. "If Moriarty's men had found the journal, his whole plan would have been ruined." He almost smiled at his scarf as he looped it on. "I'm off, Mrs. Hudson. Don't wait up."

"Where are you going?" she asked faintly, watching as Sherlock tucked the journal gently into the pocket of his coat.

"Where else?" he replied dramatically as he swept out the door. "In times of great distress, who better for a good British citizen to call upon than the British Government itself?"


	3. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

**A/N: So, I accidentally selected 'complete' when I posted the prologue and first chapter. I've fixed it now, but sorry for any confusion! This story is definitely not complete. :) It's hard to say how quickly it will update, though, because college eats free time for breakfast. Also lunch and dinner. XD**

**This chapter is very dialogue-heavy.**

* * *

At the sound of familiar, very-confident footsteps, Mycroft Holmes knew that his office door was about to be flung open without being knocked on.

He also knew, however, that this was impossible, because only Sherlock had ever entered his office that way— everyone else knocked like they were afraid the door would explode, or that Mycroft would. They certainly didn't storm in, self-important and arrogant and knowing that no matter what they did they would be forgiven because being Mycroft's baby brother had notable perks.

So it wouldn't happen, because the only person who would do it was dead.

...Probably. Mycroft had never been completely convinced about that particular detail.

Composing his face, he waited for a knock that never came.

With his usual flair for the dramatic, Sherlock nearly tore the door off its hinges as he strode into Mycroft's office, hair wild, dark coat splaying out behind him.

Only half-surprised but fully relieved in some deeply-buried, big-brother part of himself, Mycroft opened his mouth to offer a greeting only to be cut off.

"John is alive, Mycroft, and you're going to help me find him."

Well, this _was_ an interesting turn of events.

Mycroft steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair, the leather of which groaned as his weight shifted. "You have been resurrected for two minutes and already you are making demands," he sighed. "Has it occurred to you that perhaps I may no longer hold the power I once held?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, and they let you keep this office out of the goodness of their hearts." He quickly looked his brother up and down. "If anything, you've more power now. Your coat, that posture, your tie." He gestured at him vaguely. "Your general demeanor of nauseating smugness."

"You really do know how to ask for a favor."

"This isn't for me, this is for John."

Mycroft considered him for a long moment. "How did you fake your death?"

"We don't have time for this."

"What did you do? Someone else's body, made to look like yours? I saw your 'corpse.' It was incredibly convincing."

"_Mycroft_."

"Answer my questions, _Sherlock_, and perhaps I will be more open to your requests."

Sherlock took a deep breath through his nose and let it out slowly. He sat down in the uncomfortable wooden chair across from Mycroft's desk— uncomfortable on purpose— and used all the calming techniques he'd taught himself in lieu of John's presence over the last year and a half. "Molly Hooper," he supplied bluntly when he mostly had control of his temper. "A blood bag, passing laundry truck, a rubber ball, a biker."

"And how did you manipulate Miss Hooper into assisting you?"

"Oh please," Sherlock laughed, although it was really more of a rush of air. "She thinks herself in love with me. Asking her to kill me was a small request compared to the lengths to which she _would_ go for my attention."

"Charming, as always. And where were you all this time?"

"All over Europe."

"To what end?"

"I'm sure you noticed that much of Moriarty's criminal web in Europe has been dismantled." He smirked. "I will accept your thanks and praise at this time, although I certainly didn't do it for _you_." Mycroft's eyes were just a hint wider than usual, which his brother recognized as a giant expression of a true emotion. Sherlock's smirk got even bigger. "Oh, you didn't know that was me? You _are _losing your touch..."

"We assumed it was because of the death of their leader," Mycroft replied briskly.

"Ah, but Moriarty isn't dead." Sherlock leaned forward in his seat, urgency in every line of his body. "Do you _see_?"

The older man watched him for a moment, evaluating. "Unless you have information to which I am not privy, I'm afraid I must inform you that James Moriarty is, in fact, dead."

Sherlock was shaking his head before Mycroft even finished the sentence. "But he's not. I was on the roof with him. I saw him shoot himself like John saw me walk off a rooftop, but I never even took his pulse. I didn't check to see if he was really dead. It was sloppy of me, I know, but I was distracted by my emotions at the time. There wasn't _nearly_ enough brain matter for that type of wound. And so, fake gunshot."

"My men removed his body. He was quite dead."

Sherlock waved this away. "He had been up there for hours by that point, unobserved. More than enough time to switch out with a stand-in."

Mycroft looked skeptical, but decided against protesting any further. "I know Moriarty did something to make you jump. From tracking the movements of the assassins living on Baker Street, I was able to deduce that it had something to do with John Watson."

"Yes. Moriarty said John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade would be killed if I didn't jump from the roof, completing his fairy tale. When I realized that I could get out of the whole situation as long as he was alive, he shot himself— supposedly— and I was forced to jump. Supposedly."

"So now you believe that because Moriarty is alive, John Watson must be alive, as well?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, relieved (despite himself) that someone was actually following his line of thinking. Mrs. Hudson's wide-eyed confusion hadn't been comforting. "John would never believe I would kill myself over what the papers say about me, and he knows I'm not a fake. Based on this, he worked out that I had counterfeited my death and was protecting several people, including him. He also realized that Moriarty is still alive, and realized that I didn't know this. So he decided he needed to find me and tell me." Sherlock smiled to himself, looking at his hands. "He probably also worried that I wouldn't be able to keep myself alive without him."

"So then he faked his own death."

"Yes," Sherlock replied, back on track. "He had to, because he knew he'd be putting Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade in danger if he revealed that I was alive after all. He worked it out with my homeless network, after telling them of my continued existence, to make it look like he had been shot and killed, even going so far as to have one of them come and tell Mrs. Hudson of his demise."

"So what you want to do is retrace your steps from before and, hopefully, find him in one of the locations you visited," the older man said flatly.

"Yes."

Mycroft didn't speak for a while, evidently turning this all over in his head. "I have only one more question," he finally said, crossing his legs the other way and examining his brother. "What I'd like to know is why you actually think John Watson is clever enough to do all this."

The remark stung more than Sherlock would have liked to admit. He hadn't expected Mycroft to leap from his chair and announce that he was right, John was definitely alive, and in fact he even knew where John was, but that didn't mean he hadn't kind of _hoped_ it would happen.

"What _I_ would like to know is why you didn't keep an eye on him like you should have," Sherlock snapped.

"I did keep an eye on him. But just one. I thought you were dead: outside of his importance to you, I hardly care about your little..." His face crunched up in distaste. "_Pet_."

Normally Sherlock didn't mind the pet jokes that much, but he hadn't seen John in almost two years so this time he gritted his teeth and gave Mycroft his darkest look. "_Yes_, I think he's clever enough. I know he's clever enough._ I_ faked my death."

"Yes, well John Watson isn't you, now is he?" Mycroft drawled, brushing a nonexistent piece of dust from his cuff.

"He's cleverer than you know."

One carefully-shaped eyebrow went up. Sherlock kind of wanted to rip it off. "Do you really believe that?"

Abruptly, Sherlock had had enough. He'd gotten around Europe without Mycroft's help the first time, calling in every favor he'd ever cultivated. He could do it again. His assistance wasn't worth this. He rose to his feet and turned his back on his brother. "Good day, Mycroft."

Mycroft sighed. "Moriarty is dead, Sherlock. So is John Watson. However, I am familiar with your nature. You will not be satisfied so easily. Also, I imagine your resources are quite depleted. Therefore, I will fund your trip to the first place you went... there _and_ back." He paused in the way that made Sherlock always want to strangle him and watch his eyeballs pop out of his fleshy face. "You may look around for several days. Look for signs that he has been there, tracking you as you seem to believe he has."

"He _has_ been—"

"But." Mycroft raised a hand, giving Sherlock his most significant look. "When you find nothing, you will return, and if you are still unconvinced I will have his body exhumed and I will make you watch."

Sherlock whipped around to glare at the man. "No point," he said shortly. "There's no body in that coffin to exhume. You—" Then he froze. There was... _something_ in his brother's expression. Something Sherlock had never seen before and, as such, didn't know what to call. It wouldn't be pity— Mycroft didn't know the meaning of the word— but it was still on the softer side... it was...

Of _course_. The Holmes men didn't believe in telepathy, of course, but any two people who knew each other well could have a conversation with their eyes. That's what Mycroft was doing. This meeting. It was being watched. He knew about John but had to pretend he didn't— that's why he was being so unrelenting in his insistence that John was dead. That's why he was going to help him along his way under the cover of satisfying his mind, but couldn't manage the whole thing without seeming suspicious.

Excited, _so_ excited, _bursting, _Sherlock nodded sharply, trying to maintain his glare but suspecting he failed. Without another word, he stormed from Mycroft's office and hailed the first cab he could find.

Next stop, as he told the driver, St. Bart's.

Sherlock fidgeted in the back of the cab, barely able to keep from demanding the cabbie drive faster. He wanted to tell John he knew he was alive. He wanted to tell John he was back in London, so he could come home. He wanted to tell him that if he couldn't come home, he was on his way to him. That they would get to see each other again, and soon.

Unfortunately he still didn't believe in telepathy, and wherever John was his phone probably wouldn't get reception, if he had his phone. Even if it did, a poorly-timed phone ring or vibration could put John in danger, and after all this time that was a risk Sherlock simply couldn't take.

Instead, because it was as close as he could get, he dug through his pockets until he located John's journal and flipped it open to the next part. He smiled and ran a finger gently along the page: he remembered this day.

* * *

It was, I would later learn, three days before the case that would precede the one that would be the death of Sherlock, and I was experiencing what could only be called a crisis situation.

Sherlock hadn't had anything to do for a week at that point, and he was nearing meltdown. He had already been through all his usual things: pacing, flopping, bemoaning the condition of man with himself as a particular example. He couldn't think of any experiments he wanted to try that didn't involve TNT, which I had specifically banned from the flat after the incident with the cat and the stove. I was starting to reconsider, though, because he was approaching unbearable. I was also worried about my ability to keep us in food: when he was _this_ bored, Sherlock went from never eating to eating constantly, so the Chinese bill alone...

It was during one of his rampages that everything changed. It was a little thing. A stupid, silly, superficial little thing but in the grand scheme of my life it ended up being pretty important.

"Joooohn," he moaned at me from the sofa where he had buried his face between the cushions. I was impressed that I could actually understand him, considering how muffled it came out. I shuffled over to him, balancing my _perfect_ cup of tea, and kicked the leg of the sofa to acknowledge him.

"What?"

He picked his head up a bit and craned his neck to look at me. "I'm going to die, John," he said seriously.

"Why?"

"Boredom. It is actually going to cause me to die."

"Don't worry, mate. That's not medically possible," I said cheerfully, patting him on the head, then regretting it because he hadn't bathed since the night of his last case, a week ago. I wiped my hand on my trouser leg.

"I disagree. If, because of boredom, my heart slows to a stop..."

"There is no documented case of that ever happening," I said. "But if anyone can manage it, it'd be you." I stood. "Don't try it though, you hear? Can't very well have you dying in our living room."

"Yes, how_ever_ would you remove my corpse? I like to think you'd be reluctant to drag me down the stairs."

That got a full-on double eyebrow raise. "Are you implying that I can't lift you?"

Sherlock shrugged the shoulder that wasn't pressed into the sofa. "I am significantly larger than you."

"Yeah, but you don't eat! Normally. You're probably light!"

"How much could you lift at your peak of physical fitness?" he asked.

"I don't like your past tense," I informed him. I put down my tea. This should have been a hint to him, but I suspect that he was having too much fun riling me up to think about the meaning of John Watson actually putting down his tea.

"Well," he said flippantly, "If you don't know where you started I can hardly calculate the rate of muscle deterioration to give an estimate of how much you can lift _now_."

I cracked my knuckles and moved the coffee table. "That's it. Don't move."

"What?" he asked quickly.

"Yeah, you should be alarmed. Don't move, I said. Deadweight. Do it."

"John, I hardly think it's necessary for you to prove—"

"It damn well _is _necessary. I'm stronger than I look, everyone seems to keep forgetting." I got into his stinky personal space and shoved my arms under him, one beneath his knees, one under his back. "You ready?"

He blanched but he didn't dare struggle. "John..."

"Right. One, two, three, up!"

With a grunt and a mighty bend at my knees, I lifted him bridal-style and he made some kind of shrieking sound that his vocal cords shouldn't have been able to produce. I'm a doctor. I'm actually trained to lift people without their assistance. Why was this so surprising to everyone?

His arms came around my neck like a vise. "Johnputmedownputmedownputmed ownputmedown—"

"Not until you admit that I'm strong."

"You're clearly—"

"I could probably bench-press you, if you need further demonstration of my—"

"No! You're incredibly strong the evidence is undeniable I never should have doubted you _put me down!"_

Entirely smug, I placed him carefully down exactly where he had been before.

His eyes were at least as large as headlights as he stared at me from his place on the couch, every muscle tense.

"Don't think this means I won't still drag your corpse down the stairs out of spite if you _do_ keel over."

His face lit up with surprise and his mouth curled up and he chuckled. The chuckle got more enthusiastic until I couldn't help but join in, and then it turned into a full-on giggle, just like the time at the end of my 'A Study in Pink.' We giggled away until his went all breathy and eventually slowed to a stop, and then he smiled at me.

It wasn't the first time he had ever smiled at me. I was probably the person he smiled at the most of anyone he knew. Still, it was a rare enough sight that it caught me a little off-guard every time I got a sincere one out of him.

This time, for whatever reason, it caught me _really _off-guard, possibly more off-guard than I've ever been caught in my life, including the time I was shot. A perfectly familiar feeling clenched in my chest, harder than I'd ever felt it, so hard that I thought it would knock the breath out of me.

I opened my mouth, said something that I hope was sufficient, and _fled_.

* * *

Sherlock looked up as the cab drew to a stop. He tucked the journal away, flung some money at the driver, and practically leapt from the cab and into St. Bart's. Time to find Molly.


	4. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

* * *

He nearly gave Molly a heart attack when, without wasting time on such trivial things as 'greetings,' he walked directly up to her and demanded to know if she'd helped John fake his death.

She hadn't actually had a heart attack, but she had jumped a few inches into the air. "Sherlock! Startled me, you—"

_"Did you help John fake his death or not?"_

"-startled me." She blinked. "Um, no."

Then it must have been the homeless network. Without another word, Sherlock spun around and headed back towards the door.

"Sherlock!" she called after him, but he didn't stop. His phone vibrated. He glanced down at it and read the flight details Mycroft had sent him. Tomorrow, Hungary. Good. When he looked up, Molly was pacing next to him, jogging one of every three steps in order to match his Determined Stride.

Well, she wasn't hindering him.

"Sherlock," she repeated, now a bit out of breath, "I would have told you he died, but you know there was no way to contact you, and—"

"He's alive," Sherlock insisted, speeding up a bit for no other purpose than to watch her struggle to keep up. She deserved it for saying that John was dead. "Therefore you had no reason at all to contact me."

"That's... that's amazing!" she cried, daring to take hold of his arm, pulling on him to stop. He allowed it because apparently she might come around to the idea of John being alive. He liked that in a person. "Why do you, I mean, how do you know?" she asked anxiously when he halted and turned his eyes on her.

She was looking at him like this was the greatest news in the world, and Sherlock felt a rush of what might have been fondness. "Because the circumstances of his death are ludicrous," he said.

"I examined his body. I was so sure it was him! How did he fake it?"

"Black market, most likely," Sherlock reported with more confidence than he felt. "Probably with the assistance of my homeless network. It's hardly relevant, though."

She nodded enthusiastically. "What are you going to do now?"

He resumed walking, a bit slower so that she only had to trot to keep pace, since he now liked her. "Retrace my steps. He is almost certainly looking for me in all the places I previously went, so I should catch up with him in short order. First, I will try to find anyone in London who has information, and then I will get on my flight and find him myself."

"That's perfect," she gushed.

"It is, rather," Sherlock replied, pleased. He was out the door of Saint Bart's, now, and had just attracted the attention of a cab.

She nodded some more and watched as he sped away.

Once in the cab, Sherlock instructed the driver to one of Catherine's (the 'witness' hooker), favorite haunts, ignoring the smirk that he received in response except to wonder if he looked like the kind of man who went to prostitutes. It wasn't a short ride, so he whipped out John's journal, making sure to be careful despite his haste, and hungrily began where he left off.

* * *

I didn't leave my room until I smelled Chinese an hour or so later. The way he had been bingeing, I figured he had bought enough for me to steal some without him caring too much, so I hurried downstairs in time to see him dishing sweet and sour pork onto a pile of rice. When the plate was about half-full and I could see that there was plenty more in the carton, I snatched the plate away from him, practically used the Force to summon chopsticks to me, and rushed back to my room before he could protest my misappropriation of his food.

He didn't come and knock on my door, so he must not have considered this rather squirrel-like behavior strange, and for once I was glad that he lacked many of the social graces because I was pretty sure I wouldn't be able to face him for longer than it took to steal his food at any point before the next morning.

I had spent the hour before the delicious intrusion of Chinese food staring blankly at my wall, brain making noises like rushing water that later I would recognize as blood flowing through my ears but at the time wasn't coherent enough to interpret medically. The pork revived me slightly, ordered my thoughts enough for me to actually sit down and figure things out.

As I said, I wasn't unfamiliar with the strange, chest-compression feeling I had experienced an hour before. I had felt it on and off my entire life, or at least since puberty: it meant I had a crush. That much was uncontestable. The first time I had ever felt it had been for a little preteen girl when I had still been a little preteen boy, covered in acne and confused about why she suddenly didn't seem to have cooties. It had happened every other week throughout my teens when I was just about as girl-crazy as they come, with fair to middling success. The strongest it had even been was for a young lady in my first-ever class in medical school, who I almost proposed to when we graduated, before my gut and my heart told me I had to go into the army. To this day I believe that I very nearly loved her.

But then _this_. What _was_ it? The feeling that someone had taken a whittling knife to my ribs and carved longing straight into them, which I had always associated with having feelings for someone... why had I felt it when Sherlock _smiled_ at me?

I'm an intelligent guy. I know myself pretty well. And I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was straight. To prove it, I closed my eyes and imagined Sherlock, all sharp angles and dark hair contrasted by light skin, and mentally undressed him. I had seen him stark naked many times while patching him up, so it wasn't difficult. I imagined him stalking towards me in this state, eyes on only me, manly parts at attention...

As I predicted I would, I got absolutely nothing from my lower regions, when I knew that even a waft of the perfume of a passing woman had the potential to leave me incoherent. No, my body seemed indifferent, but that didn't stop the giant hands from squeezing my lungs to half their normal size at just the thought of him.

Heaven forbid that anything related to Sherlock ever be simple.

So I lined up all the facts. My heart raced when I saw him. My chest did its routine. I couldn't ever take my eyes off him. When he wasn't there, I wished he was. When he _was, _there wasn't anything else I wanted. We had known each other for less than two years, but already he was my best friend in the world.

It certainly sounded like love to me.

I rubbed my eyes, hard, and sighed to myself: I had been afraid this would happen.

From day one, I had suspected it was possible. The moment I let him borrow my phone and he deduced practically my entire life, I had become aware that I was entering a danger zone. Not just physically, either (although I gathered that pretty quickly), but psychologically. I realized that I could get very, very addicted to such a person. Someone who made _everything_ interesting, who couldn't be boring if he tried. Someone complex and ethereal and captivating and untouchable. Someone who very obviously _needed _me. Someone I needed. My very best friend.

Did I have feelings for Sherlock? Absolutely. I'd known that for a while, after all. But it hadn't been until just then, until _that_ particular time he smiled, that I'd fallen right to the ground in love with him.

I inhaled the rest of my Chinese food and slipped to the bathroom to wash up for bed, relieved when I didn't run into my flatmate. When I made it back to my room, I dived under my covers and wrapped them around me like I had as a child, and let my brain wander.

Needless to say, it was only moments before my mind took me to Sherlock. At a time I would usually be fantasizing about the more carnal side of my relationship with someone, I was instead imagining Sherlock, cool and pointy but _safe_, in my arms. Sherlock, finally giving in to sleep, with his mad curls resting on my shoulder. Me, leaning my head on top of his and squeezing lightly in some kind of strange side-hug. His long, white fingers in my hair, his nose brushing my cheek, his breath, his voice turned gentle.

I was doomed.

* * *

Yet again, Sherlock's attention was dragged to real life only went the cab stopped moving. He paid the driver who said something about "give her one for me" to which Sherlock replied with a scathing deduction about the state of his marriage. They parted on unfriendly terms.

The seedy streets were familiar. He had spent a bit of time there during his two years living on the streets. Not to solicit a companion, of course (even strung-out and unwashed, Sherlock knew he wouldn't have had a problem finding someone to go to bed with him for free, were he the sort of person who enjoyed that kind of... activity), but because prostitutes were interesting. They knew things and he wanted their help.

Every once in a while he would pass someone from his network who had evidently believed he was dead or currently believed him to be a drug-induced hallucination, because he was getting a lot of bewildered looks. It didn't matter: he was simply glad that none of them approached him, because then they would have interrupted his thoughts about what he'd just read. It explained a lot, really. Sherlock had never known what had been going on inside John's head for all those long hours. He'd been confused but not really scared, because even after two mental run-throughs of the day he'd been certain he'd done nothing wrong

Catherine, when Sherlock found her, was more than a bit high. She recognized him, though, despite this, and her voice when he drew near her was far too loud.

"Sherlock-sodding-Holmes, as I live an' breathe!" she yelled.

Sherlock flinched, but only a little. This was fairly typical for the woman so he had been prepared. "Catherine," he replied with a formal nod.

"Thought you were dead, mate," she slurred, trying to walk towards him but wavering too much to get off the overturned crate she was sitting on. "Welcome back then to _the life _then! 'S great, huh?"

Unwilling to explain (and it didn't look like the girl cared to understand), Sherlock simply started with the important question. "My landlady says you witnessed the death of Doctor John Watson. Would you care to elaborate?"

Even through her stupor, Catherine's face darkened and her voice dropped a few decibels. "Nasty b'iness, that. He had a lover, y'know, some _great detective_ and... oh, right, thas' you. So you know."

Why the reliable ones always demanded the most patience Sherlock would never know, but he resisted the urge to shake her and simply asked again, "I was away. What happened?"

"Got shot," she said in what was probably meant to be a solemn voice but came out sounding like a parody of Big Bird. "Toppa his leg. Died right afore my eyes. They say he haunts the patch'a sidewalk he died on, y'know."

Sherlock grit his teeth. "He isn't dead."

Catherine blinked at him. "Yeah'e is. Saw it." She nodded.

"He isn't, and I _know_ you know it. You helped him fake his death, probably didn't even ask why."

She scrunched up her eyebrows, confusion all over her face. "Did no'such thing."

"He paid you to keep it a secret, but you can tell me," Sherlock pressed. "He wanted to keep it a secret for safety reasons, but now I have to _know_ for safety reasons."

"Yer boy's dead, mate," she said drawled, scratching at her thigh. Without intending to, Sherlock deduced that it was her favorite injection site and it was infected. If yer lonely there's plenty'a comp'ny here."

Sherlock glared at her, one for the ages really, but that was another thing about his homeless network: they weren't afraid of him because they had nothing to lose. They had no reputation to defend and, often, less shame than even Sherlock himself. Normally he liked this about them, but now it was inconvenient.

"Catherine," he said coldly as possible, "I will pay you very well, I will make you _queen _of this place, if you can tell me, right this moment, how John Watson shammed his death."

They had nothing to lose but a lot to gain, so the promise of money always worked.

Not this time.

"Really dunno." She flopped her head side-to-side.

"Well then who _would_ know?" he snapped.

"No one, 'cus he's really dead, Holmes. Saw't with my own two."

Only John's voice in his head saying _'You are _not_ going to punch the strung-out homeless prostitute, Sherlock' _prevented him from doing just that. "Fine," he said shortly, instead. "Goodbye."

* * *

Back in a cab a few minutes later (different driver this time, thank goodness, who made no comment on Sherlock's location), Sherlock sent out a text blast to everyone on his network.

_Hundred quid for useful information on John Watson. SH_

They all knew of John, knew of his importance to Sherlock, so the detective was certain that they would all know what had happened.

He was right: Nearly instantly he received a dozen responses. For people who couldn't afford food, they really were adept at texting.

_Dead. WS_

_Died six months ago, shot in the leg. Heard he bled out right there. AP_

_Killed saving a hooker. DI_

_Thought u were dead. Hey mate. KS_

_Shot 6 munths ago in his leg. Ded. YH_

_Died. Sorry. DV_

_Gov't had him assassinated. He knew about what they found in the Thames. CP _(Charles was a paranoid schizophrenic.)

_Ask Catherine M. TC_

He grunted in frustration and sent out another blast.

_Thousand quid for information on how he faked his death. SH_

Nothing.

Well, nothing except a nonsensical, three-page rant from Charles, but Sherlock didn't trust him without picture evidence when the poor bloke was off his meds.

Useless. _So_ nice to think about the time and money he had invested in this network just to have them let him down the only time it was ever truly important.

Now he was at a dead end and he could do nothing but wait until his flight the next day.

Where to go? He'd told Mrs. Hudson he wouldn't be back, he'd rather sleep in a gutter than go to Mycroft, and he wasn't ready to see Lestrade, yet. And that was his entire list of friends. Maybe John's ex, Sarah, would take him in for just one night, if he turned on the waterworks. She hadn't despised him. But he had to take cover for the night or...

Wait, no he didn't. No one was hunting him anymore, because he was back in _London_, who, now that he was thinking of it, had surely changed in a year and a half. He should spend the night reacquainting himself with his lady.

He had the cab stop immediately, got out, and did just that.


End file.
